18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Tage
Three beers in and Lane has loosened up.
I’ve never seen him drink beer before, and I wonder if he’s always like this when he drinks it. Typically, he gets scotch or something similar, and it never seems to affect him.
His tie is loose around his neck, his shirt slightly rumpled, and I don’t even know how it got that way. The man is always so put together. Refined. Polished. I do like him like that, I’ll admit.
But like this?
There’s something about this look, like his feathers have been ruffled, that suits him—and is really turning me on.
We stay at the restaurant for a couple of hours, drinking beer after beer. Our plates are cleaned—both having big, juicy burgers, which I enjoyed watching him eat. I don’t think I’ve seen him eat anything with his hands before. It’s always with a fork, knife, and spoon.
“Who knew you had it in you?” I say.
My cheeks are warm, and I feel the alcohol swimming through my veins. My head is light, and everything is just… good.
“I did,” he says. “I’ve just… soured a bit with age.”
“You’re not sour. Just a little boring.”
He gasps, placing his hand over his chest. “You wound me.”
I laugh again, reaching for my beer… that’s empty. I look at it confused because when did that happen?
“Do you want another?” he asks.
I blink a few times to clear my vision, but it’s still slightly blurry. That’s when I know I’ve probably had too much.
“Maybe. But not here.”
“You want to wreak havoc on the town?”
I laugh again and shake my head.
“I was thinking more like your place.”
Nodding approvingly, he says, “It is only about fifteen minutes from here.”
I frown, thinking over that first night. “I remember the drive being much more than that. Like forty-five? I didn’t have that much to drink.”
“My other place,” he says.
“Oh, right. That one.”
I vaguely recall him mentioning another place. A penthouse in the city that he doesn’t take anyone to. Yet… he wants to take me?
He reaches for his wallet and pulls out his credit card. “I shouldn’t drive, though.”
“I’ll get us a car.”
“No,” he says firmly. “I have a driver.”
“Okay.” I put my phone down carefully. “Spoil me then.” I lean back, cross my arms, and smile at him.
“I’m trying,” he says, his voice rough.
His card drops to the table, the sound hits like a weight to my chest. Everything that’s happened over the last couple of months comes crashing down, and I have this visceral realization of what’s going on here.
I’ve realized a lot about Lane recently, but this… this is my own realization.
About me. My feelings. Not just in general, but specifically about him.
I don’t know how I let this happen, but it’s happened.
And I really don’t want to stop it.
Blake picks us up and takes Lane’s keys with a nod, like they have some kind of secret silent dialogue. Initially, I don’t take the seat beside Lane; I take the same one I took that very first night. But a few minutes into the ride, I move; slide right up beside him and lean into his side.
His arm comes around me without hesitation, and I reach over to take his other hand.
My eyes fall closed, and the slow rocking of the car and his warmth against me lull me into a peaceful sleep, where everything is right.
The car comes to a full stop, and it wakes me. I look up, confused about where we are.
“Sleepyhead,” Lane says softly, then kisses my head.
The door opens. Blake is standing there, waiting for us to get out. We untangle ourselves. Lane gets out first, then offers me his hand.
I step into a dimly lit garage with only a few cars parked in random spots spaced throughout the place.
“Where would you like your car, sir?” Blake asks.
“Here, please. I’ll need it for the morning.”
Nodding, he closes the door and goes back to the driver’s seat, then takes off.
“Is he always on call?” I ask.
“Not usually, but he’s paid well for when he is.”
I don’t doubt that for a second.
Lane uses a card to get us into a small and cozy, but expensive, lobby. Then he swipes it again to get into the elevator, and it automatically takes us to the top floor.
“Is this a private elevator?” I ask.
He just smiles, and I know the answer without needing the words.
It doesn’t make my skin crawl the way it did in the beginning. It doesn’t make me feel much of anything. It’s just… a thing. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be anything.
I step off the elevator into a spacious and minimally decorated living room that has windows for walls in every direction. The lights turn on the moment we step inside, but it’s still dim enough to see out at the city and all the buildings lit up.
A wide staircase curves up into a loft area with multiple rooms, and I spot the beginnings of a kitchen past the living area and to the left, tucked behind the stairs.
“So, this is home?” I ask.
“This is home,” he says as he shrugs off his jacket and toes off his shoes, that he picks up.
I take off mine too, leaving them by the empty coat and shoe rack beside the door.
“Do you want something comfortable to wear?” he asks.
“We could just stay naked,” I suggest.
He smiles. “I’m not opposed to that.”
“Show me your bedroom.”
He gestures with a jerk of his head for me to follow him up the stairs.
We walk down the hall into a room that is way too big to be a bedroom, yet it is.
The walls are lined with shelves and glass doors, all used for storing clothes.
More than any man could ever need. Shoes are lined precisely along the bottom.
Ties are rolled and placed into little holders.
Everything is so neat that it looks like a showroom, and I can’t help but wonder if he does this himself or if he has cleaners or even a maid.
The house is quiet, so I can’t imagine anyone is here right now.
I walk to his bed and lie down, sighing when it hugs my body. Not just the mattress, but the fluffy comforter. I sigh and close my eyes.